Page 43 of Folded Promises
“It’s not bad,” I admitted, turning on my side to watch him. The concentrated furrow between his brows as he considered baby names was the same one he got when reviewing security protocols or studying architectural blueprints. Langston Black didn’t do anything halfway. “Imagine when she’s sixteen and we have to tell her she’s named after the city where we announced her existence to a room full of strangers.”
He chuckled. “When you put it that way...”
“What about Truth? Since our whole relationship started with a lie,” I suggested taking the list back from him.
“A lie you told for me, but Truth Black? Sounds like a comic book character.” He laughed, eyes softening as they always did when he referenced the pivotal moment in our shared history.
“Says the man who suggested Paris Black. Besides, the Truth is powerful. Meaningful,” I shot back, nudging his ribs with my elbow.
“And a lot for a little girl to carry. What about as a middle name?” he suggested.
I considered it, rolling the combinations around in my mind. “Paris Truth Black. Truth Paris Black. Neither flows right.”
“Zora Truth Black. Strong name for a strong girl.” Langston nodded slowly, considering.
“She’d have to be strong with us as parents. Between your overprotective security obsession and my wanderlust behavior, she’s either going to be locked in a tower or backpacking through Europe before she’s twenty,” I pointed out, shifting to find a more comfortable position for my increasingly awkward body.
Langston laughed, the full-bodied one only a few people besides me ever heard. “God help us if she gets your stubbornness and my tactical skills. We’ll never win an argument.”
“Oh, you think that you win the arguments now,” I teased, passing the list back to him.
He took it, setting it aside on the nightstand before turning back to me. His expression became more serious as he reached out, his hand hovering above my belly.
“May I?” he asked, a quiet respect evident even after countless times touching our growing daughter.
I nodded, guiding his palm to rest against the firm curve where our baby girl was currently performing what felt like Olympic gymnastics. Langston’s hand was warm through the thin fabric of my blouse, his fingers spread wide as if trying to encompass the entire miracle beneath.
“I think she likes the name debate. She’s been doing somersaults since we started—” I said, covering his hand with mine.
I was stunned by a sharp movement in my belly, not the usual flutter or roll, but a distinct jab, as if my baby girl was poking from the inside. Langston’s eyes widened, meeting mine in shocked wonder.
“Whoa…” he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady.
Before I answered, it happened again, stronger this time. A thump against his palm made his eyes pop.
“She kicked. That was her first real kick,” I confirmed, tears springing to my eyes without warning.
We both froze, hands pressed to my belly, barely breathing as we waited. Three seconds and it happened again, an unmistakable thump, as if our daughter was announcing her presence, demanding to be acknowledged.
“Hey there, little bit. We feel you. We’re right here,” Langston said, bending closer to speak to my belly.
As if in response, another kick pressed against his hand, drawing a sound from him that was part laugh part sob. When he looked up at me, his eyes shone with unshed tears, a rare vulnerability he showed only to me.
“That’s our daughter, our actual daughter, Aven,” he said, his voice filled with surprise.
This child, this miracle kicking against our joined hands, was the physical embodiment of our journey from the rain-soaked parking lot proposal to this moment in Paris.
“She’s real. I mean, I knew she was, but now she’s…” I whispered, tears now flowing down my cheeks.
“Unmistakably here, and apparently, has opinions about her name already,” Langston finished my words, understanding as always. His thumb brushed away my tears even as he blinked back his own.
As if on cue, another kick pressed against our hands, drawing surprised laughter from us both. We stayed like that, laughing as our daughter announced herself to us.
The origami crane watched from the bedside table, its paper wings folded as if ready to take flight, carrying our promises for the life we created together.
THE END
